Encounters
by Redtailedfox
Summary: The Vampire Diaries characters and the X-Men characters meet each other. Oneshots with an X-Men and Vampire Diaries character including Damon/Phoenix, Rogue/Katherine, Deadpool/Bonnie, Andie/Colossus, Mystique/Elena, Gambit/Caroline, and Bradley/Pearl.
1. Emma Frost and Stefan Salvatore

He was full with blood, bloated on it and sticky with it. Wiping a slick finger down his jacket, he choked back a laugh as he realized he was clad in the red liquid more than he was in cloth. Stepping over victim number three (there had been six in total, but who was counting?) and delicately avoiding the growing pool of blood lapping at her mangled corpse, he exited the building, pushing open the door and stepping outside.

He saw her immediately, a pale spot on a grungy, ancient road that was littered with empty bottles and scented with the thick odor of sweat. Especially amid all this, though Stefan doubted he would have overlooked her even in the ritziest of hotels or streets, she drew the eye towards her, pale and fair and cold all over. She was blonde and dressed in white, giving the impression of fresh snow and innocence, though for the latter, the revealing cut of her clothing clearly removed that notion.

Catching his eye, she smiled, an amused, calculating twitch of the lips that was utterly devoid of warmth. He approached, leaning forward, his own face smeared with drying blood, his grin that of a monster. Still she smiled, her expression not wavering, her demeanor not shifting. He stopped curiously in front of her, pausing slightly, and eyeing her warily.

"Hello," she greeted, her voice surprisingly soft and musical in cadence, almost mellifluous. Without hesitation, she pressed herself towards him, angling her body nearer to his, her eyes still icy and unchanging, even as her lips twisted into a deeper smile.

"Hello," he replied, tilting his head.

She reached out with an elegant hand, her manicured finger sweeping across his face, brushing lightly against his lips. She withdrew her hand and made a small noise of derision in the back of her throat as she examined the blood. Raising her eyes to meet his again she said quietly, amusement still lacing her words, "You are certainly one of the messiest eaters I have seen in a very long time. How are you enjoying vampirism, Ripper?"

Stefan laughed, a short, hard sound full of shock and disbelief. With the quickness granted to his species, he grabbed her wrist, yanking her towards him as his fangs extended and his face rushed with black blood. Her flesh was colder than a human's should be, he observed dispassionately, but warmer in temperature than that of a vampire's.

"Are you going to let me go?" she asked lightly, and he laughed again, this time with sadistic glee, as he felt his vampire side, not quite sated by his kills, rise to the surface and take control.

And then suddenly her flesh was no longer soft and hot, but freezing cold and utterly unyielding, and she was glowing. She was no longer human, no longer prey, no longer even a woman. She was a diamond carved into the shape of a woman, and she was beautiful, dazzling, shining with reflected and refracted light.

With a casual, almost dismissive flick, she swatted him across the road, and Stefan felt his breath escape him as his ribs cracked on impact. With a groan, he tried to rise, already feeling the renewed pain of his body knitting back together, but she was on top of him, straddling him, her diamond body heavy and hard.

"And rude as well," she said, her voice sounding like broken glass. Then she laughed, and she sound was strangely pleasant, tinkling, rather than crunching. She shifted her weight over him, and a rainbow of light assaulted his eyes, a spectrum of colors dancing across his skin. The diamond receded, and then her face was human and female again, her lips laughing, her eyes frosty and cold. "I'm Emma Frost," she said in her normal voice, and Stefan thought the name suited her, and then she was diamond again, and then she was gone.


	2. Rogue and Katherine

A.N. Okay, so basically each of these chapters is a short little thing with one character from the X-Men movie-verse and one character from the Vampire Diaries universe. Reviews are nice!

Every touch was ecstasy, every embrace pleasure in the utmost. She had warned her companion about her powers, how badly she could hurt someone, how a single kiss could take a life. Katherine had not been dismayed, or put off, rather, she seemed to relish Rogue's ability, once likening touching her to touching a pan sitting on a stove, knowing it was not hot, but oddly doubtful all the same. Still, Katherine had nothing to fear from Rogue's power, seeing as technically, she was not alive but undead, with no energy to spare, no life for Rogue to leech off.

Rogue loved this, loved how good it felt to touch and kiss and hug someone without anxiety or terror, to be able to do it thoughtlessly, and simply, as others so routinely did. But after years isolated and physically separate from others, Rogue was incapable of taking the taste of Katherine for granted, starved for sensation as she had been, even the most chaste of gestures, a light brush of a hand again her cheek, or a gentle kiss pressed to her lips, could flood her body with overwhelming pleasure, thrilling her every cell, and sending her reeling with hot desire and contentment.

And Katherine knew this all too well, and made no secret of how she savored teasing Rogue, using the littlest of effort's to twist her up into a tight ball of lust, nearly making her beg and plead (she never did, much to the vampire's disappointment), her fangs scraping tauntingly over Rogue's pulsing neck, the pounding blood increasing in tempo as she pressed the point of her teeth deeper into the skin. But Katherine seemed to enjoy Rogue's touch as much as Rogue did hers, and would indulge Rogue's most innocent of wants, letting the girl curl up beside her, skin to skin, flesh to flesh, their heartbeat's synchronizing into one harmonious beat, Rogue seeking the warmest areas of her body with an almost childlike need for contact and heat.

Katherine would pet the girl's hair, and tell her, with almost sincere regret in her voice, how one day she would have to leave, how she would have to go, maybe for centuries…. And then Rogue would look up and slyly say in return, they'd better make the most of now, and then the only sounds would be of pleasure being fulfilled, and the moans of bliss.


	3. Deadpool and Bonnie

Bonnie was sick and tired of the sane boys, boys with little dark secrets and treason wrapped into one. She was bored of the sweet boy with his lies, and whenever she thought back to the other boy, full of deception and hidden betrayal, she felt a burst of hot anger.

This one was different.

This one was mad.

Mad as a hatter, he had told her, and then proceeded to tell her about the history of hatters, fraught with insanity bourn by poison in the hats. He had giggled, loony, nutty, crazy, mad-as-a-hatter, and she had laughed along with him, their voices rushing together midair to meet.

Blades from his arms, a small sliver of blood running down the exquisite, gleaming metal, she touched the drop as if it were a precious thing. He could delight in the strangest of things, and she enjoyed every moment of it, laughter mingling and soaring through the air.

He was mad, but he was honest, and though ruthless and sharp-edged at times, at least, unlike her past lovers, when, at noon or midnight or the hours in between, when he knotted his fingers in her hair and told her he loved her, she knew he meant it.


	4. Phoenix and Damon Salvatore

She said she had found him by his mind, that it had drawn her to him, and was fond of telling him how wonderfully bloody all his thoughts were, memories of death and emotions drenched in darkness, a muddle of lovely pain and rage all tainted in crimson. She was in his mind, reading it, wars and a beast dressed as a lady, roles shifted between brothers many times over and a long list of names and faces, victims and lovers both.

She'd smile, a sleek, cruel grin of an animal, full of uninhibited savagery and rolling pleasure bubbling against the surface, and he'd smile back, a mirror of her own expression, happy for the shared viciousness.

Phoenix, he'd whisper in her ear, words slurred by the fangs pressing against his lips, phoenix phoenix phoenix phoenix, red beast, flames for feathers, flames for hair, beautiful against the skyline, body caked in scarlet blood.

Monster, she'd hiss in return, creature from the dark, nightmare thing, predator with blood for eyes and sharp fangs for teeth, eating blood, painted with it, soaked in it….

She'd loved the bloodiest sections of his mind the best, savoring their flavor as she entered his unconsciousness, her tongue running around her lips. Gore and screams and flesh ripped open, she enjoyed every section of it, thrilled with his remembered kills, delighting at his darkest desires, some of which she was only too happy to fulfill.

In turn, he was aroused by her unfettered sadism and malice, relishing the cries of her victims as she tore them into little bits, his heart singing as she rose into the air (phoenix, shining phoenix, dark phoenix, red phoenix, bloody phoenix) and tortured those who happened to be around her, her face tilting upwards in ecstasy as she saw the terror in their minds.

Blood connected them, rippling between them and staining the ground, pain and blood and joy all mixed with craven instinct and desire, each blending with the other and mixed with kisses and soft, hushed words… phoenix… monster. And blood.


	5. Mystique and Elena

In Mystique's whole life, nobody had wanted her as she had been naturally, blue and scaly and entirely herself. Both of her men had wanted her as something other than what she truly was, Hank, who had wanted her human, blond hair and glossed lips and fair skin, and Erik, who, despite his claims that he desired her exactly how she was, had wanted her because she was very much a mutant, reptilian and exotic, representative of his own goals and ideals- in the end, he had liked her for _him_ and what she meant to him, rather than liking her for _her_.

Only Elena wanted her as she was, desiring her without any ulterior motives or hidden schemes.

"I know monsters," Elena had told her one lazy afternoon, both of them sprawled out against the grass, eyes closed and flesh warm with the heat of the sun, "And you are no monster." And she turned and kissed Mystique's pink lips, and continued to do so even as they darkened to deep cobalt.

Mystique had asked her about these monsters of her, and Elena had shook her head, her eyes suddenly tired and full with a vast sadness. She had answered, her voice distant, telling Mystique about men with the darkest of appetites, and the cruelest of cravings, lips bright with blood and eyes shining with hunger and lust. Mystique had comforted her, and resolved herself to not question Elena again, for the ring of anguish in her words had frightened her.

But Elena smiled again, and was quickly laughing alongside Mystique, her face alight with peaceful humor, her lips quirked into a gentle grin.

And at night, sheet's damp with sweat, she'd sleepily tell the other how her skin was like shadowed sapphires and her eyes were like sunshine and warmth and lemonade.


	6. Bradley and Pearl

He had the bright gaze and eager smile of a child, coupled with the naivety of an innocent. That was what appealed to her, she who had lived hundreds of years and had witnessed the worst sorts of horrors and crimes.

He had charmed her with his sweetness and immature obsessions; little toy trains circling on miniature tracks, and boxy robots that wobbled across the floor.

Every time they met he'd make the light bulbs overhead glow extra bright, and he'd point and say, "Look, they're as glad to see you as I am!"

She laughed and thought him terribly silly, but a deeper part of her had melted at the adoring smile worn across his face, his kindness and innocence so refreshing, and as she kissed him, so tenderly, she thought she could almost forget about all the violence and tragedy she had seen during her long, vampiric life. Almost.

But even if he alone couldn't wash away all the pain and memories completely, he had eased their grip on her, and she found herself quite addicted to the relief that his presence brought her, his easy gentleness a balm for the hurt she had experienced, viewed and delivered in equal measure, his sweetness so incredibly endearing.

And she had watched with grave darkness and sadness in her heart as, slowly, the innocent compassion and childlike naivety in his expression dimmed, gradually replacing itself with a cold blankness and the hard knowledge that evil was present and prevalent in the world.

"It's just the job," he'd tell her, "Just the job."

"Get out," she begged him, "Leave."

He had, eventually, but even that couldn't save him, and when she found him dead and cold on the floor of his room, all the lights and toys he had loved silent and dark, she had cried as his eyes drained of color and flattened, the kindness in them gone for good.


	7. Gambit and Caroline

When the dominos had fallen and the truths and lies of Mystic Falls had been exposed, Caroline stayed only long enough to observe the destruction, before realizing just how _bored_ she had become of all this, and before her sense of guilt and friendship took control, she whisked herself away from the little, ruined town, relinquishing herself to herself to her innate selfish impulses. She didn't regret it for more than an instant, and the sensation was quick enough to go nearly unnoticed.

Soon the lights of the cities pulled her close, mesmerizing her with the promise of unexplored pleasures and delights. As a human, she may have hesitated. But she was a vampire, with the luxury of near-immortality on her side, and once again submitted to her powerful, vampiric emotions and cravings.

She never stayed in any place long. A hotel, perhaps an apartment. The colorful nightlife sparkling on her sequined dresses, blood, sex, and a short journey down the rabbit hole later, she would surface for air (not that she really needed it), and then do it all over again.

She was just beginning to tire of this when the mutant phenomenon started to appear, and she felt a distantly remembered thrill of excitement flush through her undead body. The world was changing before her eyes, and she tried to soak it all in, watch as societies molded themselves around the word that was now uttered in nearly every other breath. _Mutant._ An enigma to many, a dirty, repulsive thing to others, and a beautiful sound for her.

Her ears seemed to tingle with their own joy whenever she heard the wonderful sound hit the air, the word filled with almost tangible possibilities. And while she disguised herself as a human more often than not, she found herself shifting her routine in a way she hadn't done for decades, pretending to be a mutant, utilizing her many powers to make the ruse believable, as she was sure many other supernatural creatures were doing.

It was during one of these lengthy games that she met him. He was a mutant, and she was pleased that both his unique mutation and his body were lovely.

Gambit, he called himself, and she accepted his mutant name, never asking for anything more. In return, he never asked anything about her history beyond her own name which she freely gave him.

"Caroline," he'd smile, pressing a queen of hearts into her hands. She'd watch in glee as he'd made the rest of the deck explode in a furious fireworks display, laughing in delight as the ashes fell into his hair.

"Incredible," she'd hiss, stroking the remains of the cards from his dark hair, watching in overjoyed pleasure as his eyes shifted to a vivid red-purple that sent a cold heat down her spine. Her own body would respond whether she wanted it to or not, eyes darkening to black, teeth lengthening to press to her lips. If he found it strange that she would sometimes bite into his neck and drink, he never said a word, and after he'd wipe away the blood, she'd make a house of cards, her steady, strong hands delicately balancing the kings against the aces, and the queens against the two's.

And when he pressed his smiling lips against her hair and whispered pretty things into her ear, she'd close her eyes and wonder where she'd go when she got bored again.


	8. Wolverine and Anna

He appeared close to crying, right on the brink of tears, standing numbly in front of the gravestone for the victim turned murderer who had massacred humans and mutants alike- the epicenter of the devastation at Alcatraz. The sky ahead was dark and ominous, clouds full and heavy with rain.

She wondered if, somewhere deep inside, he was also mourning the other woman, the one whose name and face he could no longer remember. She wondered whether the name 'Silverfox' would have any effect on him, or if his sorrow was for Jean alone.

"Hello," she said, flitting up from behind him like a silent shade manifested, and she smiled sadly as he jumped in shock.

"Do I know you?" he asked, frowning, like he already knew the answer she'd give him.

"Not anymore," she told him, watching as his expression wavered between confusion and understanding, and then shifted back into neutrality.

"Wolverine," he greeted after a moment's pause, stretching out his hand. She took it.

"Anna," she replied, smiling again at the reintroduction. Rain began to sprinkle the ground, its tempo gradually increasing as it slashed open holes in the mud below. Her hair was damp with it, and a single raindrop caught in her eyes, curving down her cheek in a mimicry of a tear. She stared curiously at his cheeks, debating whether it was the rain on his face, too, or tears shed in front of the grave of a lover.

"You loved her very much," Anna said softly, voice nearly drowned out by the pounding of the rain against the ground.

"Yes," he responded, and his far-off gaze made her wonder, again, which woman he was thinking off.


	9. Deathstrike and Elijah

She was something different, something contrastingly darkly glorious and as blank and empty as a pale porcelain doll, with a cold gaze and an expressionless mask of a face, with painted color and even features. And she was as deadly as a wild beast, the trained instincts of a killer nestled comfortably inside a deceptively slender body.

She took no notice of him at first, but she was clearly well attuned to the small, tiny things that separated his kind from the human norm. Just as he spotted her, recognizing her as, if not something supernatural, certainly something strange and inhuman, she noticed him. It wasn't anything he was doing _intentionally_, but perhaps some of his vampire speed, bleeding into his walk, or perhaps the confidence in his step, even as late at night as it was.

She didn't say a word. She didn't increase her pace. She simply redirected herself, stepped in front of him, and pushed him down the street with a strength that confirmed his suspicions that she was something other than merely human.

Though the hit had been hard, it was nothing for him, and he relaxed himself, waiting on the ground as the woman stalked forward, the streetlight above illuminating her face, and it was only his carefully practiced control that prevented him from gasping in shock.

"Pearl?" he asked quizzically, for a brief, wild second, wondering whether the dead vampire had somehow managed to return from the grave. He dismissed this as quickly as he had considered it, as the woman continued to approach, her eyes impassive and blank, her face still devoid of emotion, as if someone had gone into her mind and scooped out all of her feelings. For a moment, she reminded him of a vampire who had flipped the switch, but then he reconsidered. She was more like someone with the illusion of apathy, someone who had grown so accustomed to a lack of emotion that she no longer felt anything at all.

She was in no hurry. A few feet away now, her nails, a silver color that he had originally assumed was polish, elongated, flickering brightly in the light up above, lengthening to blade-like proportions. She paused, and a slight flicker of something akin to confusion flashed across her face, gone before Elijah was sure it was even there.

Then, she attacked. He would have moved sooner, if he had seen it. As it was, there had been no hesitation, none of the normal facial cue's that he had learned to expect. He managed to regain an upright position and avoid most of the damage, but his shoulder was clipped, and he snarled in surprise, reeling back and waiting for it to heal.

The confusion on the woman's face lasted slightly longer this time, as she eyed the newly-closed wound with an empty gaze. The confusion amplified, turning quickly into agony, as Elijah moved forward, becoming a dark blur, and sinking his fangs into her throat.

He tore through flesh and veins, not searching for a meal, only trying to incapacitate her. She cried out, hands stabbing repeatedly into his stomach, but she was rapidly weakening, her blood pouring down her shirt. She moaned, and he released her, watching as she fell to the ground like a broken toy, trembling hands reaching for her neck. He stepped back, wincing as his body repaired itself, glancing down to check on the condition of his suit.

What saw when he looked up nearly caused his jaw to unhinge. She was standing, actually standing, pushing herself to her feet, eyes still cool and uncaring. He gaped, amazed- she shouldn't be able to move anymore, much less stand- but before he could either try to snap her neck or applaud her strength, he realized she, too, had healed, under the drying blood staining her skin, there lay only smooth flesh, uninjured and unmarred.

Something like a smirk flashed over her lips, and he stared in appreciation and wonder. Though she was his enemy, he couldn't help but marvel at her beauty, thinking her as something forged from silver and pain, some lovely, deadly creature with liquid metal for eyes and bones, and darkness simmering under fair skin.

But that didn't stop him from trying again to murder her. He darted forwards, plunging his hand into her, reaching to pull her heart from her body. He failed. Her ribs were too strong, the bones refusing to bend or break, even to his supernatural strength, cultivated over a thousand years. She smiled again, a cold, mechanical grin, her fingernail's slowly elongating as he tried desperately to pull his hand out of her chest, captured as it was, between her ribs, her other hand holding it in place, keeping it trapped, his fingertips brushing over her beating heart.

Elijah saw her elegant fingers stretching out, and a flash of silver, before there was a sharp slash of pain, and, for the first time in centuries, he blacked out.

When he awoke, they were in a different place, an empty warehouse with flickering light bulbs attached to the high ceiling. She was standing there, and there was the glimmer of a smile on her lips, an almost genuine amusement curling the edges of her mouth.

"I don't think you're a mutant," she said after a short pause, "But you aren't human, either. That much is certain. I don't need to kill non-mutants. I suppose I'll let you go."

"Should I be thanking you?" Elijah asked hoarsely, rubbing his neck as he stood, unsurprised when his hand returned bloodied.

"If you like." She waited.

"Who are you?" Elijah asked, curious.

Real emotion was now present in her features, before she smoothed them away. "He called me Deathstrike," she said softly, "I was with him for so long… I've forgotten much about my life before then. But… I think my name was Yuriko."

"Yuriko," Elijah said, playing with the name, before extending his hand. She took it. "I'm Elijah," he returned, smiling. "And I think we could have a lot of fun together."


	10. Darwin and Klaus

Klaus was more bored than he had been in decades, and his patience with the 70's was quickly wearing thin. In a fit of annoyance he had gone to the bar and drunk a tremendous amount of alcohol, so much so that if he had been human it would have put him in the grave twenty times over. He was as drunk as a vampire could get, so when his latest victim, sporting a sloppy red wound, proceeded to stand up and say something about evolving to survive, Klaus's reaction involved blinking blearily and assuming the bartender had slipped something into his drink.

In particular, he remembered her slow wink and sultry smile, as well as her suggestion that he enjoy himself, before she'd slid his drink over the countertop towards him.

The man was still talking, and his voice was beginning to grate on Klaus's nerves, especially since he wasn't even really there.

"Shut up," Klaus groaned, yanking the man towards him and sinking his fangs into his neck for the second time. The blood tasted real enough, for a hallucination, and as he finished, he wondered what, exactly, the woman had given him.

After the fifth attempt, Klaus was beginning to suspect that maybe, just maybe, the man wasn't part of some particularly vivid hallucination.

"What the hell is this, mate?" Klaus asked drowsily, sitting back against the alley wall and rubbing his eyes.

"I've told you," the corpse explained, "I adapt-"

"To survive," Klaus completed in a bored monotone, "So you've said. Again. And again."

The corpse grinned, a dazzling smile that Klaus thought matched nicely with his dark brown skin and bright red blood. "Exactly. Perhaps you should consider stopping with the murder attempts." He shrugged, "I've survived pretty much everything."

"Everything?" Klaus asked, intrigued despite himself. He leaned forward slightly, interest briefly pushing back the boredom and irritation that seemed ever-present nowadays.

The corpse rubbed his neck absentmindedly, considering. "Not everything," he said, "But a lot." He sighed, and then began to recite in a careless drawl, "Bullets, a couple long falls, a few car crashes, knives, clubs, water, fire… even a nuclear explosion."

"Oh?" Klaus asked, sitting up straighter, "A nuclear explosion? Hiroshima? Nagasaki? When were those again?"

The corpse laughed, a faint trace of something like embarrassment, or maybe pride, creeping into his voice, "Neither. Jeez, those were over thirty years ago. It was a… little… nuclear explosion. Very contained."

"Sounds fun," Klaus replied sarcastically, "Invigorating."

"It was," the corpse mused, smiling sagely, seemingly oblivious to the sarcasm, "for a second it was like… flying. To quick to really be painful." His smile widened, "Are you a mutant, too?" he asked, "Though I'll admit I've never seen a single mutant with any adaptations remotely resembling yours."

"Mutant?" Klaus asked, eyeing the corpse, "Never heard of that. I'm a vampire. Hybrid, actually. Just about a thousand years old."

The corpse nodded, appearing impressed, "A vampire, huh? How many like you are out there, anyway?"

"Hundreds. And none. At least, no hybrids."

"That's a shame," the corpse said, "It's never good to be alone."

Klaus shrugged, and with a sigh stood up, stretching. His vampirism was quickly curing him of the side effects of the many drinks he had consumed earlier, leaving him with only a rapidly disappearing buzz. He examined the corpse on the ground, and deciding that it wasn't a corpse at all, just a man- a mutant- with copious amounts of blood staining his clothes. The man in question pressed his arm to the wall and drew himself up, stretching out a hand.

Klaus took it. "Klaus." He told the other.

"Darwin," the man replied, smile bright and glittering.


	11. Agent Zero and Rose

They called each other monsters and their kisses were always tinged in anger and resentment. If she wasn't so determined not to be the killer many others of her race were she would have happily murdered him ages ago, and would occasionally indulge in warm fantasies about doing just that, ripping open his throat and lapping up his blood, or shooting him with one of his own guns. In her favorite daydream, she would compel him to do it himself, and she would watch, pleased and wholly content.

"You should be glad I'm nice," she purred on night, fangs grazing his neck, eyes filled with dark blood. He'd called her a monster again, and she was beginning to tire of it. "There are much worse vampires out there. You should be more polite." She grinned through her fangs, kissing him lightly on the lips, then pressing another kiss to the hollow of his throat, "Who knows, Zero? Maybe I'll get sick of you and give you to them as a tasty, mutant present."

But to her dismay his pulse remained steady and Zero laughed at her, pulling her face down against his chest, and pressing his own kiss into her hair. "Go ahead, Rose," he taunted, "You die just like we do. It just takes… a little more effort."

She pulled away from him with a dark snarl, and called him a monster in return, and he replied as he always did, as they both always did. "There are far worse mutants out there. You should be grateful I'm not like some of them are."

They were both in the same boat, but it didn't stop either of them from trying to get a step ahead of the other.

"You owe me," Rose retorted, a low growl entering her voice, "It was _my_ blood that saved you from the helicopter explosion. If gratitude is to be given, it should be me who receives it."

"Really?" Zero responded, as he always did, "If that's the case then you owe me, too. I was the one who rescued you from that mob of vampires. Come to think of it, you never have told me what you did to whip them into such a frenzy."

Then they both spat out a volley of creative insults and curses, and then would laugh, occasionally still infuriated, often not, and would end up making love to each other again, and they'd wait until morning before they remembered to hate each other again.


	12. Pyro and Jeremy

His kisses tasted like ash, and there was an irresistible flavor of danger to Pyro that Jeremy found immensely appealing. In that sense he reminded Jeremy of Anna, for it was her aura of mystery and menace that had first drawn him to her. But Anna was sweeter and softer than Pyro, and as far as temperament went, Jeremy could help but compare him to Vicki. Both of them had the same quick smile and both were cloaked in the scent of smoke and flames.

Pyro was different than Vicki, though, more passionate, more deadly. Vicki, at her core, had been sad and lonely; bitterly pulling herself away from a world she thought she'd never be accepted into. Pyro's fury at the world was hot and bright- instead of receding into the shadows as Vicki had done, he chose to lash out at the world, trying to scorch it with fire and rage.

But while his anger had been fierce, his laughter and smiles were given freely, and his promises and whispered words seemed to shine like the tongues of flame that were his to command. Something about him had seemed off, to Jeremy, somehow wrong, and it had taken him a long time before he realized what it was.

His promises, like his kisses, they had tasted of ash, and as day came, they'd always fall away, forgotten on the nearest breeze.


	13. Colossus and Andie

He told her he'd protect her, and she'd so naively believed him, believed the lies buried in his kisses, and the sincerity in his words.

"I won't let them hurt you, Andie," Colossus had told her, his strong arms wrapped around her slender body, his surprisingly gentle fingers trailing over the bite marks marring her neck.

She should have known he would never have been able to keep his promise, should have refused to accept his dishonesty before he finished speaking. But he had been so kind, his voice lulling her into a sense of warm security, the likes of which she had not experienced since her first, bloody meeting with Damon Salvatore. But she had been so hopeful, so gullible, as she watched his skin morph into strong metal, his muscles and flesh becoming flexible steel.

She had been so silly, thinking he could protect her, so silly, listening to all his comforting words, as he told her that he was stronger than the vampires, how they would not be able to hurt him. Perhaps he had been right; perhaps his strength was greater than theirs.

But. (She continued to fall through the air, the journey from the top of the stage to the bottom of the ground seeming ridiculously long, both Salvatore brother watching her, one with pleasure in his eyes, the other full of horror.) How could he have protected her from this?

Crunch.


	14. Iceman and Rebekah

When Rebekah awakens this time, she is surprised at the changes that had swept across the globe. The fashion changes, the technological changes, these she has grown to expect. She'll complain about them until she grows accustomed to them, of course, but these cultural differences have long since ceased to astonish her. She'll adapt.

But in this new world her brother brings her into, humans have evolved into green-skinned and pink-scaled beings that can breathe fire and fly through the clouds. They call themselves a variety of names, but the unaltered humans have settled on one- mutants, and the very word sings with the ghost of fear.

And for the first time in many centuries, Rebekah feels she can empathize with the humans, for she too feels fear. Her strength seems diluted in comparison, her abilities less impressive compared to the wonders these creatures can conjure with a touch. For many years humans resided arrogantly on the top of the food chain, and she on top of them- a true apex predator, and she had no hunter, no reason to feel fear, for not even her brother could ever fully kill her. But now humans have advanced, threatening to leave her behind, for she will never change again. Their newfound power disturbs her, and she wishes she could snatch it away. It's dangerous, these talents of theirs, for if a single mutant has the power to separate an atom with a glance, what hope does even an Original vampire have?

She wishes her brother was here to comfort her, for even at his cruelest he would always reassure her of their collective strength, and she never doubted his words when he told her their enemies would be no match against them. She always believed Nik, but for the first time since they were human children, she is not even sure if he is still alive. Rebekah suspects he is, but if that is merely stubborn denial on her part, she does not know.

The world has changed, and she fears she has lost her place in it.

Her place was always clear before. Hunt. Feed. Drink. And have fun, of course, for what is eternity if you can't enjoy yourself? Now her prey confuse her for the mutated, and her breath against their neck, and her red eyes don't distinguish her as separated and superior, only as a creature to be despised. She is not a mutant. She is a vampire, and they should be prey.

She puts her mind to killing one of them, to reassure herself of her power. It is not easy.

She finds one by his delicious scent, and he smells strange and inhuman, an underlying scent of weird half-sickness, with a more obvious overtone that reminds her of popsicles and fresh snow. His eyes are blue, like the sky reflecting over a pane of ice. She licks her lips, and he mistakes her thirst for desire, and he kisses her. She permits him this pleasure, allowing his lips to press into hers and his hands to travel down her skin.

He tastes like crushed ice-cubes and his wandering fingers are cool like frost.

She catches his name somewhere between the kisses. Bobby Drake. She thinks nothing of it.

She could compel him, but decided to test herself, and instead leads him outside, letting him pin her to the alley wall. Her own hands roam his body as he continues to kiss her, and then she lets her fingers play at his neck. She squeezes, and at first he thinks this is part of her game, but as she allows some of her strength to seep into her grip, he seems to realize she means to kill him.

It is not so easy to end his life. He summons a blizzard and makes his flesh into solid, flexible ice, but she is quick and avoids his blows. Underneath the hard ice-coating, his blood runs red and warm, and she spills it onto the ground, weakening him before she drinks from his jugular and finishes the kill.

Then, blood covering her face, bits of Bobby Drake underfoot, and the taste of mutant in her mouth, she smiles, because she is the apex predator, and the mutants are still bound by their human roots. They are prey, and she is their hunter. As it has been, and as it should be.


	15. Silverfox and John

They called him a fanatic for his devotion. Quietly, under his breath, John returned the favor and accused them of treachery. It shamed him to be part of a council that was more eager to work on keeping the status quo and diverting attention than it was on hunting vampires.

But John knew his duty. John understood the truth his ancestors had long ago discovered: the monsters of the night would destroy humanity, unless someone stopped them. He promised himself he would not be a coward and shirk from his mission; he would hunt down the creatures the council refused to touch. He was committed. He was resolved. And he was strong in his conviction.

He was also out of luck. He had travelled from town to town, searching desperately for any sign of vampiric activity, but it had proved futile. It had been months since he had chanced upon a vampire, months spent moving from one decrepit motel to the next, going up and down, north and south, east and west.

His nerves were frayed and his senses felt electrified with stress and nervous anticipation, and perhaps it was this, coupled with a severe lack of sleep, that had led him to believe the woman at the bar was a demon.

It was something in her movements that had piqued his interest, although even in his exhausted and paranoid state he had to admit this alone wasn't proof she was inhuman. But there was something in her step, in her ethereal grace and ballerina-like motions that reminded him of the eerie and supernatural walk of a vampire, and that unnerved him. He watched, and observed.

There were other signs. They way her eyes gleamed with an unhurried confidence, the way her pupils sparkled with a surreal luminosity in the bar lights, and the strange and beautiful smile that flitted over her mouth like a ghost and whispered of a maturity beyond her years. Obsessive now, he continued to watch.

Finally, he found something that completely convinced him she could be counted among the ranks of the undead.

It was a few hours past sunrise, and the night had faded away into day, leaving only a slight chill to the air and traces of dew behind, and the sun, although partially obscured, shone bright with radiant brilliance. But the inside of the bar was, as always, dark, and she had arrived well before the nighttime had turned to day.

She was sitting alone, but did not remain so for long. A man came, and over the music and the collective roar of the crowd gathered in the bar, John could see that an argument was beginning. He couldn't hear a single word that was said, but the woman was on the defensive, and the man was yelling, his face flushed and red with anger. He grabbed her arm, his other hand gesturing wildly, and the woman cried out as she was jerked up.

And then she opened her mouth, icy eyes locked firmly on the man's furious ones, and there was a pause. Her voice carried over to John, and although the words were lost amidst the other sounds filling the air, its flavor was not, and the taste of it settled with a numbing intensity in John's ears, the scent of its cloying power singing over his skin. Her voice was a dagger drenched in honey and wreathed in fog, though even this sweetly hazy disguise didn't quite manage to fully cover the dangerous bite of steel hidden below the softness and sugar. And as John watched, the man's grip on the woman slackened, the wrathful passion in his eyes drifted away, and the color in his cheeks drained, replaced by an empty blankness. He turned and abruptly left, his movements looking to John more like those of a puppet, than an actual flesh-and-blood human being.

But _she_ wasn't human. His suspicions had been verified. She had used compulsion. She was a vampire.

So he walked over to her, and pulled out his stake. The crowd had grown massive, the music vibrating through the room, and he decided nobody would notice anything, even if he killed her in the middle of the room. That was good. Preparing to kill the woman, wicked doubts began to creep into John's mind, and he reminded himself she wasn't really a woman at all, she was a monster dressed up in female skin, she was a demon, a fiend. He chanted this over and over until he was convinced.

Then, he struck. He tried to stake her through the heart, but she had dodged out of the way, and began to run, sluggishly for a vampire, he thought, towards the door. He grinned, and wretched it open, hoping to see her burn in the sun, but instead, with a strangled scream, she threw herself out into the day.

John froze in horror, and suddenly felt as if he had been splashed with cold water. It wasn't simply that she had survived the sun. There were a select number of vampires with access to rings that could protect them from the day. No, it was the _way_ she had flung herself into the light, instinctively and automatically. A vampire would have chosen the darkness, would have slunk back into the shadows. As he looked at her, full of innocent fear and preparing to flee, bathed in the golden glow of the sunshine, his mistake seemed obvious now, obvious and childish.

He threw the stake away and raised his hands in placation. He tried to apologize, but he couldn't put his guilt into the proper words, explain his error without turning traitor himself.

But she had stopped as well, and her bewilderment and terror morphed into decision, and she approached, tentatively pressing a gentle hand to his neck. Her gaze drilled into his, with a hardness that her soft touch belied, and her lips parted, deceptively delicious honey and blissfully numbing fog (all wrapped around the tantalizing agony of the knife below) drifting off her tongue and worming its way into his ears and mouth and mind. It was oddly intoxicating, and he felt devoid of individual identity or emotion, only seeking to fulfill the commands of the woman's soundless voice.

Through the haze, a single word came through with perfect clarity, a shimmering diamond that danced on the edges of his perceptions for a brief instant before disappearing.

_Forget._

His world spun and swirled, and finally righted itself, the fog now cleared. She had already vanished when he opened his eyes, but he did not have the memories to know the difference. And in the absence that he was suddenly, profoundly aware of, he thought he could taste honey, lingering on his breath, before that, too, was swallowed into oblivion.


	16. Yukio and Silas

Immediately after their plane lands, Logan decides to board a commercial flight and instructs her to stay behind.

He tells her he's off to Alcatraz, that he needs to pay his respects to a woman he once knew. Yukio understands that he will not be swayed from this course, and because she cannot see any death in it for him, she gives the Wolverine her blessing. Later, she will wonder if she should have ignored his insistences and followed him instead.

But her powers are limited in scope- despite her best efforts she cannot alter the future, let alone the past. So she will be forced to camp out in a little Virginia town called 'Mystic Falls' and her future will unfold like this:

She will know something is amiss the moment her boots land on the summer-warmed sidewalks. She will dismiss this premonition as foolishness, but she will tighten her grip on the well-worn hilt of her sword all the same.

Something will buzz in the air, a static nothing that will seem to vibrate inside the marrow of her bones. The smell of old blood will hang to the breeze. She will even imagine she can scent the faintest whiff of decay, as if sun-rotting corpses traverse the roads before her.

Strange smells, odd sensations… they are nothing compared to what will come next.

Yukio has had visions her entire life. She has been continually haunted by images of the last moments of both dear friends and total strangers. Yukio believes she has seen everything there is to see- and she believes she has hardened her heart to it.

She will be proven wrong.

The visions will come tenfold, one by one by one. Quick successions of deaths flashing before her eyes: that woman waiting for her children in her driveway, that teenager paying for ice-cream, those girls in line to see a movie.

She will see them all die. They will all die the same way. They will die confused and in agony, throats torn open and a demon suckling at their blood. They will die looking into the blue eyes of the beast that murders them; they will die watching it lick their blood off its lips.

Sleep will grant her no solace. Fear and guilt will erode her well-practiced callousness, until her only comfort will be the cold glint of her unsheathed blade. Eventually, she will resolve herself to confront this abomination has begun to feature so prominently in her nightmares. Her hands curling around the hilt of her sword, she will vow to kill it. It is what the Wolverine would do, it is what Mariko would want her do, and it is what she _needs_ to do. Otherwise, she knows her dreams will forever be of blue eyes and smiling, crimson lips.

It is a small town, and the monster of her visions will not be hiding. Quite the contrary, he will flaunt his abilities with reckless abandon, hypnotizing himself an army of spellbound followers. Her own abilities render Yukio immune to his dark enchantments, and she will use this to her advantage.

The demon will pass her on the street and she will offer a vacant smile, and he will continue past without another thought. All the while, she will be plotting his demise.

They line up in front of his doorway every evening, all on their own brainwashed volition. They are the pretty ones, the young and healthy ones, the ones with the sweetest of blood. They come to please him, and to sate his endless appetite. One night, under a sea of especially bright stars, Yukio will join them. She will wait until dawn and keep waiting until the next night, and when he finally opens his doors for her, her knees will tremble with fatigue.

He will shut the door and smile at her, an expression so utterly sadistic and devoid of genuine warmth that Yukio will wonder anyone could be blind to his true nature. She will smile back, and in a swift motion draw her sword and stab him through the heart. She will expect him to slide forward and unceremoniously expire.

She will be astonished when he violently yanks the blade from his chest and tosses it casually to the ground. He will use his supernatural strength to pull her close, and he will laugh cruelly in her face.

"How did you resist me?" he will ask curiously.

She will refuse to answer. Instead, Yukio will bare her teeth and spit out contemptuously, "You are a demon. I see you in so many deaths."

His grin will turn mocking, and he will tilt his head to the line of mesmerized followers that wait loyally outside his door. "Do you foresee me in their deaths as well?"

She will nod silently, and he will go on. "And did you see my death at your hands? I am immortal, child."

She will say nothing, but she will think _I have met men that call themselves immortals. And they never are. _But this one will prove different; his words will not be empty boasts.

With a sudden, deadly seriousness he will grip her head between his hands and ask urgently, "_Do_ you see my death?" He adds his hypnotic, honeyed persuasion to the words, and even Yukio is hard pressed to resist his spell completely.

It is difficult to embrace the gift she has spent most of her life fighting, but the demon's insistence is powerful. She will gaze into his desperate eyes and see… nothing.

After a long pause, she will admit this to him. "If you die," she will tell him, "I cannot see how."

And then Yukio sees how _she_ dies: the demon will roar in rage and despair. His hands will move from her face to her throat, and he will snap her neck in a vicious motion that will leave her body wobbling in the air.

And in an oppressively hot bus travelling to a small, isolated town she has never heard of, Yukio begins to shiver uncontrollably as she sees what is to come. When the bus stops and the dingy doors creak open, she abruptly decides to remain inside. There are different towns further down the road. Safer towns. Demons can wait.


End file.
